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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23785654">Counting Stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeppsbrott/pseuds/Skeppsbrott'>Skeppsbrott</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Codependency, Cronus is along for the ride, Eridan is a disturbed youth, Gun Violence, Humanstuck, Implied Relationships, M/M, POV Second Person, Road Trips, Running Away, Sibling Incest, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, playlist fanfic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:41:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,059</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23785654</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeppsbrott/pseuds/Skeppsbrott</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eridan gets himself into trouble and Cronus inexplicably finds himself in the driver's seat. They listen to a lot of music and steal some cars.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cronus Ampora/Eridan Ampora</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Unchained Melody</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was written a few years ago at the point of publishing, but I figured it doesn't do any good to leave it to rot in my drafts. Based on a playlist I made around that time, I highly recommend all these songs.</p><p>Playlist can be found here (with a handful of bonus tracks): https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2VzdkjB5AhJOUEJDpOyHLQ?si=daZyIamwSXS_0mrz4FJk1g</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The fields doesn't seem to end. Your body would be shaking still if it wasn't so exhausted, which in many ways is a relief because no longer are you keenly aware of your soul rioting to try and rip itself from your insides. Your fingers ache with the tight grip on the wheel of your father's car and to your right Eridan lies so still that his open eyes are the only things betraying that he's still awake. They dart along the horizon which is beginning to grow pale in the east.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Part of you wishes he'd talk to you, but your head is swimming and you're so tired you probably wouldn't be able to respond. What would he have to tell you, anyway? You wish he could take the driver's seat. You wish you had coffee. You wish you had your phone. Hell, even that old MP3 of yours. Your mind is sore with the same thought patterns of hours ago and you'd even welcome the shittiest bro-country to lead them elsewhere at this point. You wish you could wake up at home and have your dad berate you for sleeping in well past noon, but you can't always get what you wish for and reality is you're probably gonna be doing a lot of wishing for the foreseeable future. Eridan's eyes flicker in your direction and meet yours for a fraction of a second before returning to the window. It's the first real interaction you've had since the bright city lights faded behind you. You straighten your back and focus on the feeling of the wheels spinning underneath you, the road passing under the body of the car at a speed you can only barely comprehend, the vast amount of "north" ahead of you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's futile. Eridan moves his lips but doesn't say anything. Your back aches. "Eridan-" He glances at you again when your voice falters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he slides a CD into the radio. You only now notice the old CD-binder in his lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, my love, my darling</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Your breath catches in your throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve hungered for your touch<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>A long, lonely time<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>And time goes by so slowly<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>And time can change so much</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The nowhere spreads out around you and inside you. You've barely even crossed state lines and yet you've never been so far from home. Even in Washington or Europe or Hawaii you've been so very, very far from home. Your body is an inch from giving out and you pull over.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you still mine?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Resting your forehead against the wheel you feel short of breath and your cheeks wet with tears.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cro?"<br/>
</span>
  <span>“We should’ve switched cars.”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“Cro, look-”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“We should’ve brought something better to eat, we should-”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“Cronus.”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“We shouldn't've fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>ran</span>
  </em>
  <span>, oh my God, Eridan, we-”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“Cronus!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You look up, your chest aching. Eridan has turned in his seat, his eyes meeting yours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll drive for a bit.”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“You never got your license-”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“Oh my God, you really fuckin’ think that’s gonna matter? I can drive this.”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“You never got your-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eridan grabs your face, and the warmth of his hands catches you completely off-guard. “Cronus,” he begins, blue eyes meeting yours, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>if </span>
  </em>
  <span>we get pulled over, whether I’ve a goddamn license or not’s gonna be the last of our fuckin’ problems.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lonely rivers flow<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>To the sea, t</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>o the sea<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>To the open arms of the sea</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Singing lessons, Eridan and your father at the piano, a small but proud smile on his face as he puts the wine glass to his lips. Your grandmother cooing with pride when you and Eridan sang for her one Christmas.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>On the riverside<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Wait for me, w</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>ait for me</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You'd argue with him but not only are you exhausted, you genuinely have no idea if he's right or not. For all you know, they've blocked off state borders at this point and got your faces onto CNN. He runs his thumb over your wet cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh my love, my darling<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I hunger, hunger for your touch<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Oh love, hold me tight</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You swallow a sniffle. “Are you sober?”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“More than you were when we started.”<br/>
</span>
  <span>He’s right. You must’ve been on the road for at least six hours straight by now. The outdoor air is cool and fresh when you open the door, your legs are aching. The car radio fades out over the fields which are shivering with the light wind.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And time goes by so slowly<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>And time can do so much</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you still mine?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You're still alive. At least there's that. You're still alive and the straight horizon line is growing bright with the sunrise and aside from The Everly Brothers on the radio, it's all quiet. Eridan rest his head against your shoulder and his hand settling on your back. You take another deep breath. Then another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The first part was the hardest," Eridan says. You decide to not listen for hesitancy in his voice.<br/>
You open your mouth, wait for the words to come to you. "Are we safe?</span>
</p><p>He pulls back, shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair and adjusts his glasses. "We won't be."</p><p>Safe from what, anyway? You think of the gun laying in the back seat, shivering a little. Then you think of all the people waking up in this moment, going to their jobs, kissing their families good morning, preparing breakfast, cursing at the radio. You choke on a snivel, look at Eridan who's heading towards the driver's seat. You've bickered before, but right now, for the first time he fills you with cold hatred. A white hot rage only matched by the disgust you feel for yourself.</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh baby, oh love<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I need your love<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Just give your love to me</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You drop into the passenger seat, realizing that for the first time in your life you have no idea how to find your way back. Suddenly, home feels even farther away.<br/>
</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Unchained Melody by The Righteous Brothers, lyrics by Hy Zaret</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Paris</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eridan listens to the news broadcasts on the radio, and while you hate to admit it, that’s honestly probably for the better. If your phone wasn’t shattered along the train tracks five hours south, you guess you’d be obsessing over the headlines yourself. Eventually, he convinces you that you’re <em> probably </em> fine, at least for now. As much as you hate those odds, you’re too hungry to argue when he asks you to keep an eye out for a drive-in.</p><p>You stock up as much as your cash funds will allow. If you were alone, you’d probably have ended up using your card, and as thankful as you are for Eridan remembering these sorts of things, at times he talks about it in a way that makes you uneasy. Like he’s been thinking about this for a while or something, planning escape routes and plans of action.<br/>Now that you think about it, who the fuck brings a gun to a club? Your stomach pangs with hunger. You back the car up behind an abandoned barn, trying not to look at the gun, or the two empty beer glasses (shock full of your fingerprints), or the bloodied USB-stick on the towel in the back seat.</p><p>Eridan gets out, stretches, and downs three cheeseburgers before even sitting down, then looks at you. “Tonight we’re switching cars.” <br/>Like he has one waiting for you a few more miles north.</p><p>Cheap roadside burgers never tasted so good.</p><p>“At least I'm not alone,” Eridan says, almost to you. You want to wrap your arms around your baby brother, forgive him for every shitty Christmas present, every stolen hair gel, every unwarranted critique of your appearance or taste. The next moment you get the impulse to spew bile all over him. After all, the acid bubbling at the back of your throat and the uncontrollable train of fatalism running through your mind can at least partially be blamed on him. He lets you drive again when you get back out on the road, so you focus on something else and fiddle with the stations on the radio. It's mostly preachers. For a moment you think you've found a top-forty station, but it sizzles back and forth between the music and the ecstatic voice of a radio evangelist. Outside, the fields continue into infinity.</p><p>
  <em> If we go down then we go down together</em>
  <br/>
  <em> They say you could do anything</em>
  <br/>
  <em> They said that I was clever</em>
  <br/>
  <em>If we go down then we go down together</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Paris by The Chainsmokers, written by Andrew Taggart, Kristoffer Eriksson, Fredrik Häggstam, and Charlee Nyman</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter describes a shooting situation. Proceed with caution.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>In the garden of Eden, honey<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Don't you know that I'm loving you?<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>In the garden of Eden, baby <br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Don't you know that I'll always be true?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Your ears are ringing in pitch with the guitar and the base is reverberating in your chest. The DJ booth looks like a Jackson Pollock of blood and brain matter. Eridan's arm is steady. The barrel of the gun wavers ever so slightly. The body beneath you seems like it's still twitching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your immediate response is disgust. It's a view that's inhumane and unnatural. There is nothing about it that anyone should have to ever see. Your brain throbs with the attempts at reconciling the fact that just moments ago, this man was alive, but from now on he won't be. The life has already left this body as the blood continues to seep out onto the floor, reflecting the pulsating lights of the club. Your stomach turns</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few meters back, the crowd starts to catch on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't say a thing," Eridan breathes. He moves swiftly, grabbing you so your back turns to the confused crowd that is now starting to disseminate through the locale, away from the DJ booth. You realize your mouth is hanging open. Eridan reaches up, roughly messes up your hair so that it falls into your face before reaching down and grabbing the memory stick from the dead DJ's hand, the sole of his shoe breaks the surface tension on the pooling blood. Before you can close your mouth, Eridan shoves the two glasses you'd placed aside in your hands, there's still condensation on them. "Not a goddamn <em>word,</em>" he hisses. Strangely, you can hear it without problem, despite the loud music. He raises his left arm to cover his face and to rest his right hand on, his finger alongside the trigger. Someone screams, doors slam, an alarm sounds.</span>
</p><p>Your shirt is damp with sweat, back aching, body begging for the sleep but your brain screaming in panic as you force yourself to wake from the memory.</p><p>The baseline is still ringing in your head.</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, won't you come with me<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>And take my hand<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, won't you come with me<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>And walk this land<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Please take my hand</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eridan's knuckles are white around the wheel. He doesn't look at you.<br/>
</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida by Iron Butterfly, written by Doug Ingle</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Number One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Freedom<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Freedom<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Freedom<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Freedom</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit,” you breathe, adrenaline making your entire body itch, “holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit-</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my God,” Eridan sighs, slamming the car door shut. “It’s just theft, Cro. Besides, not even that risky, it was obviously some mancave retreat or whatever-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just theft,” you repeat. Eridan lets go of the wad of blankets in his arms, revealing the modest amount of loose cash, as well as the canned foods and the glass bottles of liquor that had been safely tucked away in the bundle. Without looking at you, Eridan climbs into the back of the pick up truck that you decided to liberate from its past owner, where he starts piling up the blankets for some sort of comfort. You notice you smell like sweat.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m wanted for murder, Cro. If we're doing this, it's better than getting hungry or tired and making stupid mistakes as a result.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>Probably</em> wanted for <em>manslaughter</em>,” you correct him. “You need intent for murder.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eridan looks up at you again and pauses for a moment as he observes you. There’s this expression of pity on his face that you don’t like at all. “What exactly do you think a person who aims a loaded gun at someone’s face intends to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wish so badly that he was older than you. He scares you so much it hurts. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes I feel like a motherless child<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>A long way from my home</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes I feel like I'm almost gone<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes I feel like I'm almost gone</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Your stomach is mostly empty so you don't need much to take credit for the decision to include the bottles into your loot. Eridan hadn't even thought about it but, you tell him, if you're doing this you need to live it and not just survive it. It's a truth you only half believe, but the sickly sweet burn of Tennessee Honey and the world blurring at the edges is a welcome break from everything else.</p><p>
  <span>The skies above you are speckled with stars in a way that always surprises you when you leave the city. You're not sure why, because you're not sure where they'd go, but with your luck even the stars would dump you. Eridan drinks with just as much irreverence as you. It hurts more than the fear to watch, because in your mind he's still fifteen and trying to explain to you why Feferi will surely take him back in a week or so, poorly trying to hide the blue eyed idealism that he's still so chock full of it will leak out as tears when he gets angry at you or dad or the world for being unfair.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now he barely even flinches at the burn of the shitty whiskey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He passes the bottle to you, meeting your eyes, reminding you that you've clinked glasses with him before. Just not like this. You press the bottle to your lips and decide that both of you are gonna get smashed, too hungover to drive for a good many hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are we doing tomorrow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eridan laughs. “Fuck if I know,” he says, pressing up next to you to keep warm and offering one of the blankets. “Isn’t it great?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re about to object, tell him about how you miss your things, your habits, your friends, your dad. A proper bed and a reliable bathroom with a tub. Instead you keep the cold glass of the bottle against your lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the day after tomorrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then what?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure, eventually the police will catch up to you, but in how long? Two days? A week? A month? Twenty-five years down the road? And here you’d thought you’d become a famous musician.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We didn’t have to run,” you breathe eventually. Eridan looks up at you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t have to run,” he says. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t murder anyone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s right about that at least. You hate him. You think. He takes the bottle back. He doesn’t actually look all bad in the improvised buzzcut he demanded you give him. Purple is too obvious a colour he’d said and of course he is right.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Guess there’s no space for vanity from here on out. The cold air fills your lungs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But you'll come out all right<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>(Yeah) I know it seems there's no end in sight<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>(Yeah) But it doesn't mean you can't put up a fight</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No vanity. No Meenah. No getting rejected by music industry bigwig secretaries. No tracking your follower numbers on Instagram. No sleepless nights at the thought of your job. No scheduling conflicts with Rufioh- no Rufioh, period. No light pollution. Just cold air in your lungs and stars in the sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Eridan next to you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s looking at you again, his shapes soft and his expression warm, filtered through golden liquor.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t have to run,” he repeats.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>You swallow down some emotional lump or other in your throat. “Neither did you.”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“Was as good a choice as any.”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“You realize your charges-”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“You don’t fuckin’ get it, do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course you don’t get it. What is there to get? You stare him down, or try to at least, before giving up. Eridan was always more stubborn than you. “How many years?”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“Many years.” Eridan leans back against you. You wonder what the constellations above you are named.<br/>
</span>
  <span>“I don’t believe that you’re not scared.”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“I know what I’m doing. And even if I didn’t, I know what’s waiting for me. I knew that ever since-”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Since you pulled the trigger.” Would it be weird if you grabbed his hand?<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eridan is quiet for a bit before sitting up straight again and offering you the bottle. “Since, like, two years back?” Your brows furrow. When you don't take the bottle he sets it aside instead, carefully, at an arm’s length away. “There’s no future for me, Cro.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes I feel like I'm almost gone</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eridan-”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Haven’t been for years,” he mumbles, closer to you again. “Can't say I ever expected to actually kill anyone else, though.”<br/>
</span>
  <span>“Look, Eridan, we’ll just-”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>He laughs again, breaking the silence of the countryside, puts a hand on your stubbled cheek. “Cro,” he says, “what the fuck do you think I bought a gun for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t reply. Infinity passes. Eridan kisses you.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It's gonna be alright<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Telling white lies<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Of late nights<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>'Til the sunrise<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>''Cause when we rise up we rise up above<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>All of the chaos<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>To get lost<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Don't make me, don't make me wake up<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>'Cause I'm gonna be like a drug<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>That never gets old<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Or gives hope<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>But baby you make me feel loved</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You hold him tight as you fall asleep. Equal parts terrified that come sunrise he'll either have left without you or tell you he wants you to come with him as he seeks the end of the world.<br/>
</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Number One by Portugal. The Man, written by the band, Brian Burton, Jason Kreher, Casper, and Richie Havens</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Jet Boy Jet Girl</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>At some point the shock leaves you. Instead you find yourself watching from outside your body, noting Eridan's lips on yours without seeming to bring yourself to really feel anything about it, the world is already so askew that this doesn't seem to disturb you as much as it should.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This additional slant doesn't quite seem to go away, though, suddenly making it difficult to ignore just how far off course your life has strayed. This isn't normal. Nothing of this is normal. Eridan's kiss is gentle, sensual, beckoning. You feel dizzy, like with motion sickness, like the horizon refuses to steady itself. You hear the faded beat of the radio and it reminds you of your pop-punk days.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I'd like to hit him on the head<br/>Until he's dead<br/>The Sight of blood is such a high<br/>Ooh-hoo-hoo-hoo<br/>He gives me head<br/></span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The need for touch is a base need like any other and just like the greasy cheeseburgers effect of stilling your panic and hunger, the weight of your brother's body against yours only highlights how long it's been since you were touched, since you saw anyone else. Your sweat cools quickly in the night and you realize that you have a body. Eridan's nails dig into your flesh and not only do you have a body, it is real, it's not just an illusion of your own brain. It's real and it's alive, reacting to Eridan's hot breath and begging for more touch, more life. Anything to grasp onto to remind yourself that you are here and now, in the world, next to another human being who you suppose feels the same for he moves closer. A hand in your hair. Stubble against skin. Blood pulsating through the skin under your hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ooh-hoo-hoo-hoo<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Jet boy, jet girl</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your mind is numb with alcohol and exhaustion, yet it's the first time you've felt alive in God knows how long, so you accept that you want him closer. He grunts, a rather undignified noise of that same want or need, before pulling back to fumble with your fly. He almost immediately changes his mind, just shoves his hand down the front of your pants. You thank God you didn't have to be the one to make that decision.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jet Boy Jet Girl by Elton Motello, written by Alan Ward</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Keep The Car Running</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You tap your fingers against the wheel. Outside, the landscape rushes past. It has changed slowly as you've continued north in a manner that's rather hypnotic and not particularly interesting but at least the sunset today is beautiful. It’s been a good day; quiet, safe. Eridan’s made up a plan, mapped out a route for you in the map from 1998 you found in the back seat. You ate today and Eridan shoplifted a jacket full of snacks as you bought the paper and deodorant. The woman behind the counter gave you a sceptical look and just for kicks you lifted a pack of gum once she'd decided she wasn't gonna spend more energy on you. Your fingers tap against the wheel.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>If some night I don't come home<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Please don't think I've left you alone</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You must think I hate you,” Eridan says, suddenly. You give him a glance, trying not to lose track of the peach sky and this moment of light heart. He’s fidgeting with the plastic bag keeping the bloodied USB stick. “I've just ruined your music career for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s true, but for whatever reason you honestly don’t care that much about it anymore, or at least right now. It makes you wonder whether you ever did. You long desperately for your base; a guitar or a piano to play, software to tinker in. That seems to you like something entirely different. Eridan observes you as he waits for a reply that you don't end up giving.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” he says, and then, with slight hesitation in his voice, adding: “An’ I never did hate you.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Never?” You kick down the gas a little, feeling the power of the engine under your hands.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Eridan looks back out through the window, the sky an explosion of purple, peach, and pink. “Never,” he says.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keep the car running<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Keep the car running<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
  <span>Keep the car running</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You tap your fingers against the wheel in beat with the music. The radio static becomes harder to ignore by the second. The road stretches beneath you, an improbable hydra extending in both directions and so fiercely speeding by underneath you that your human brains probably can't even comprehend it. The engine roars. Eridan’s eyes switches from the radio to some point past the horizon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a shame, though,” he says, “I’m pretty sure Springsteen wrote Born To Run for this specific scenario, and we can’t even play it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Keep The Car Running by Arcade Fire, written by the band.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Bohemian Rhapsody</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Is this real life?</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Oh my God.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Caught in a landslide<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>To escape from reality</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Yours and Eridan's eyes meet and for the first time in what feels like years there's wild and unabashed glee covering his face. "The tape just said 'Queen'," he explains, gesturing towards the pile of cassettes in his lap. "I figured it was a safe bet." He moves the pile back into the glove compartment and the hard plastic clacks familiarly, making you wish that your next car might also have a cassette player, so you could bring this gold mine for the bored with you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes return to the road while Eridan keeps grinning, sitting up straight, giving you an inkling of familiarity as you turn up the volume. "Do you remember your harmony, too?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Fuck if I know," he laughs, "probably not. Who cares."<br/>"It'd be cool, is all."<br/>"Do you?"<br/>"I think so, it's been ages but I've still-"</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mama, wo-oh oh</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Didn’t mean to make you cry</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eridan just goes for the main melody, and he’s right. You don’t care. You only barely believe in instinct, but there are some things you just </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do. Singing <em>Bohemian Rhapsody </em>at the top of your lungs and cranking the volume all the way up seems like one of them. It might be the very thing which makes you human at this point. Eridan slams his palms against the dashboard with glee, singing:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No, no, no, no, no, no, no</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He calls, you respond:</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh mama mia, mama mia<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Mama mia, let me go!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Tenor and bass, this is the way the two of you are supposed to exist, no holds barred. The song fades out and Eridan smiles. It's not without a gleam of madness in his eye but right now it's easy to forget you ever feared or hated him-</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is this real life?<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Or is this just fantasy?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>Eridan laughs with surprise and wide eyes. "Of fuckin' <em>course</em>!" he exclaims. This time you both follow along from the top, with warmed up voices riding the melody with ease, the road blasting by below the body of the car. It's fun. You miss when singing was just fun. Eridan plays air piano, breathes in deep, preparing for the first verse.</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mama, just killed a man</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Put a gun against his head</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Pulled the trigger, now he’s dead</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <span>His voice disappears halfway through the first line and when you look back at him, the grin is gone, eyes unseeing. Something in your stomach drops, but you pick up your breath, pull through with all the force you can muster. He joins you again just before the solo.</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mama, wo-oh-oh</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t wanna die</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Sometimes wish I’d never been born at all</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Carry on</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you sing, pushing the old Ford just a bit harder.<br/></span>
</p><p>
  <span>The song loops once more. Eridan hesitates for a moment, then pushes the volume all (really all) the way up, sings like you've never heard him before. It's strained and not particularly pretty - Eridan was always better at pretty than impressive - and you pretend you don't hear his voice crack or his pitch break.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m just a poor boy</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I need no sympathy</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <span>Fourth time it loops your voice cracks too. By the time you hit the outro you are both out of breath. You pretend you don’t hear Eridan failing to keep back sobs.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing really matters,<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Anyone can see,<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing really matters,<br/></span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
  <span>Nothing really matters to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tape whirrs a little as the last empty half-minute plays out, finally clicking to tell you that this side is finished. Neither of you reach out to turn it over.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen, written by Freddie Mercury</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Bad Moon Rising</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s late night, possibly early morning, and you turn in your seat. You’re dead tired, but your body is aching, impossible to make comfortable. Not that you'd hoped to get any decent amount of sleep: you're itching with restlessness, constantly reaching for things to fidget with and your mimd running circles around you. The radio is on low, your focus zoning in and out as the voice marked by what must be decades of tobacco fills the space between you and Eridan.</p><p><em>“...so this next one is a real classic and it goes out to Angie. Angie, wherever you are tonight...”</em> The road rolls in under the headlights. The voice, the engine, the miles and miles of distance shooting underneath the hull of the car, envelopes you like a blanket. You remember falling asleep in the back of your dad's car, feeling safe and tired. You barely register the music as you begin to doze off.</p><p>
  <em>I see the bad moon rising</em>
  <br/>
  <em>I see trouble on the way</em>
</p><p>Relaxing fully is difficult, though. You can't help but be intensely aware of the fact that Eridan really doesn't like driving. There's no confidence in his wielding of the machine and the lack of jitters tonight seems more like resignation than anything else. You force yourself awake. Pulling your legs up to your chest, you blink a little, try and orient yourself in the darkness outside. Two headlights appear in the distance. He'll be fine. He's been fine so far. You have to sleep. You can't babysit him like this. Your eyes linger on the Ford as it approaches, the two gleaming eyes of light blink before it passes your car.</p><p>
  <em>Don't go around tonight</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Well it's bound to take your life</em>
  <br/>
  <em>There's a bad moon on the rise</em>
</p><p>Did you imagine that? You straighten in your seat. "Eridan".<br/>"Go back to sleep, Cro."<br/>"Eridan, stop the car."<br/>He looks at you, a glance before he turn his attention back to the road. "You want me to pull over-"<br/>"Stop the car."</p><p>Your voice is loud and assertive. Eridan jolts a little and gives you a face that's equal parts sour and concerned as he pulls over. "What?!"<br/>"The Ford," you say, neck creaking as you straighten yourself further out. "Did it blink at us?"<br/>He hesitates. "Yeah. Why?"<br/>At least this stolen pick up truck is spacious. You undo the belt. "Police ahead." He doesn't appear to process it, just looking at you as you grab the soda bottle to take a generous swig. "There's- you blink. Giving people a chance to slow down- You didn't know this?"</p><p>The blood drains from Eridan's face. He shakes his head, eyes wide and dark. He looks like a teenager. Correction: he is a teenager. You're exhausted. You should not be driving. What else could you do, though, when you see the way his hands are shaking?</p><p>
  <em>Hope you have got your things together</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Hope you are quite prepared to die</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Looks like we're in for nasty weather</em>
  <br/>
  <em>One eye is taken for an eye</em>
</p><p>You dare a moment to stretch your legs but when the next car comes rushing by you have to close your hand on the stick shift, get going. How many years for murder? Eridan looks into the far off distance of the road from which you came.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Bad Moon Rising, written by John Fogerty and performed by Creedence Clearwater Revival</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Palace & Main</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The whole while you've been out on the road the weather has been dry and dusty. Now you're in day two of absolute skyfall. In a manner it's a pleasant change, but it concerns you when you think of the fact that the seasons appears to be changing. Not that it matters. That's how you win at hide and seek: you hide until everyone else gets bored and leaves. Then you keep hiding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eridan's breath leaves a light fog on the window of the car. A flickering flame that shows he's alive. If Eridan's alive, it will all have been worth it, you've decided. It's the result of an extended mind-game where thinking about the future you missed out on makes you hurt so unbearably much that you have to remind yourself that it's a future in which Eridan... you're not sure. Would've fired the gun at someone else? At the same guy, only when you were elsewhere and couldn't protect him? At himself? You think you're protecting him. He wouldn't have made it this far without you, that's for sure. Neither would you, as demonstrated by the fact that you picked this ride.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A poor choice. It's almost certainly a rental and upon scanning through the belongings, they're definitely tourists. You're not sure why that matters, but it seems like it should matter. It's a nice and modern car and you feel like the universe is about to deal a just punishment for it in return. You might just be paranoid, because you have no idea how intense the search effort really is for the two of you, but it seems far too recognizable. You miss the pick up, it had began to feel like home, meaning you'd stuck with it for too long. At least according to Eridan. Is it worth the effort to switch cars again?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wipers run back and forth. The road continues. It feels like months, years, until it doesn't, at which point you're sure it's only been two days. You wonder how many finger prints you've left over this part of America. All over cars, gas stations, rest stops. You think about DNA traces. You think about barely getting away with shoplifting at the edges of small towns and the teenagers at the counters regarding you with bored disdain. You think about the seemingly endless network of roads that seem to serve no one and go nowhere. You think about the tracks that neither of you have even thought to cover yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eridan had said he'd keep you company rather than sleep in the backseat. He went out like a light almost immediately. He's been sleeping a lot recently. You've tried to bring it up, an effort made more difficult by the fact that you really don't want to talk about it. From your perspective he cares less about the burden of proof against him in court and more about stalling, which is an equation you don't like the implications of and has no particular interest in examining.<br/>
</span>
</p><p>Whatever the deep and long sleeps mean, you yourself can barely bring yourself to sleep at all any more. Your body hurts with stiffness and stasis and refuses to allow you to rest. Your fingers itch to stretch over the neck of a guitar, or handle a touch screen, or write something. Anything that's about the small movements rather than the cross-country ones. You bought a crossword paper but haven't solved a single thing. It lies in the back seat, six words solved in the entire issue. Eridan sleeps. The rain falls. Your palms are sweaty against the wheel for no apparent reason. The CD playing is in a language you don't speak. You tap your fingers to the song but can't seem to find the beat. The road looks the same as it has for what is probably weeks at this point: you're not in motion anymore, it's just the set dressing that's being swapped out every so often. In Eridan's lap the road map lies open and for a moment you think you see his eyes open, fixing on the trails of rain running across the window.</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Och alla som älskat dig har hatat mig av rädsla</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>För att jag ska se dem som offer vid Palace and Main</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Palace &amp; Main, text By Jocke Berg, performed by Kent</p><p>This song was one of the original inspirations for this work, here are the lyrics used in my translation:</p><p>And all those who've loved you they hated me in fear<br/>That I might see them as victims at Palace and Main</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Break On Through</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Tried to run</em><br/>
<em>Tried to hide</em><br/>
<em>Break on through to the other side</em>
</p><p>Calling your new car "new" is an act of generosity. It's another old Ford, only this time it smells like the heirloom of three generations of potheads. You cross your fingers it won't be reported as missing anytime soon.</p><p>Eridan's breath is heavy underneath you. It falls in and out of sync with the familiar baseline being pounded out through the shitty sound system. It's pouring outside. Eridan claws at your hair. "I want it," he declares as he somehow pulls himself around in the small space of the backseat, facing you in the dark. The phrase is jarring, out of place, said with a fake confidence you feel like no one can quite clock like you.</p><p>"I don't have any condoms-"<br/>
"Oh my God. Shut up," Eridan slurs, his fist closing in your hair to send shivers down your spine. "I told you I don't fuckin' care." He smells like Jack Daniels. Your breath tastes like Jack Daniels. His free hand responds to your hesitancy, grabbing yours firmly, leading you to his-</p><p>Leading you to...</p><p>Leading you.</p><p><em> I found an island in your arms </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Country in your eyes </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Arms that chained us </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Eyes that lied </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> Break on through to the other side </em></p><p>You comply. You touch him. You revel in the sensation of being touched. You're not quite there, though, even as you hear yourself moan. There's a glass pane between you and your body, forcing you to take up residence in the base crackling through the speakers, vibrating against the physical reality of your foot.</p><p>
  <em>Break on through to the other side</em><br/>
<em>Break on through to the other side</em>
</p><p>Eridan whines and you think you catch a sob, but before you can return to your body long enough to pull the breaks, he begs you to continue.</p><p>Your breath is heavy. The windows fog up. Your mouth tastes like Jack Daniels.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Break On Through (To The Other Side) written and performed by The Doors.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Born To Run</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You leave the car door open behind you as you walk out into the morning air. You let it wash over you like you imagine it is a real shower, making you feel somewhat less gross in your awkward middle-stage beard and your filthy hair. Eridan stretches and climbs over the rail to sit down on the steep slope of the hill. Bruce Springsteen echoes over the valley below and it makes the dated and well-worn sound system of the car seem magnificent enough. You follow Eridan and together you watch the finale of the dawn in silence. The guitars and the slurring voice of The Boss is in your mind undetachable from the image of your father. You have to imagine Eridan feels the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It's a death trap, it's a suicide rap </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>We gotta get out while we're young </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>'Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Aren't you scared?"<br/>
</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence as the last beams of sunlight push themselves over the hills on the opposite side of the valley. Eridan speaks. "You already asked me that, Cro."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"That was long ago."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence again. You breathe in the crisp morning air. The skinhead look you gave Eridan however long ago has started getting really fuzzy, you notice, once more noting to yourself that time no longer seems to matter. Try as you might, the days are all the same, blending together into a mush of paranoia and chronic exhaustion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I miss daddy."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks... aged. The comment makes you think of Eridan, age nine, but that memory has nothing in common with the body of the man next to you. Do you look as tired as he does? There's acne on the side of his nose, the awkward whiskers of a beard that - if he's lucky - needs another few years. Your own face feels dry. Your whole body feels dry, your insides covered with the dust of miles and miles of road and your slowly disintegrating muscles thirsting for life as you once knew it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yeah," you reply. "Me too."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breathe in. Breathe out. The autumn wind carries the stuff emerging from your lungs elsewhere. Far away from here. Home? You close your eyes to imagine it, but the image of your home town brings you nothing but disgust, a feeling you can't be bothered to analyse. Suppose that's just how things are now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, will you walk with me out on the wire?<br/>
'Cause, baby, I'm just a scared and lonely rider</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Cro.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His voice is a whisper but it hits you like a blunt knife. "Yeah," you whisper back as Clarence Clemmons' solo fades. "Me too."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>We're gonna get to that place </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Where we really wanna go </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>And we'll walk in the sun </span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
    <span></span><br/>

  
  <em>
    <span>But 'til then, tramps like us </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span><br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em></em>
  <span>Baby we were born to run</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Born To Run, written and performed by Bruce Springsteen</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Like A Rolling Stone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> Now you don't talk so loud </em> <em> <br/></em> <em> Now you don't seem so proud </em> <em> <br/></em> <em> About having to be scrounging for your next meal </em></p><p>The car jerks to a halt. Your head thumps against the car door and wakes you up to the voice of Bob Dylan. You blink the sleep out of your eyes: for once you've actually been pretty out of it and as much as you'd like to enjoy it, it also seems vaguely inappropriate. You notice the shake in Eridan's tense body and so you straighten up to get a look over the front of the car. You must've hit something.</p><p>The police.</p><p>Less than a hundred paces ahead, blocking off the road, waiting for you. Eridan's hands grip the wheel firmly.</p><p>"Eridan."</p><p>He looks at you but doesn't answer. After all these panic attacks, you really should've figured out how to help, but you haven't.</p><p>
  <em> How does it feel? <br/></em>
  <em> How does it feel? </em>
</p><p>Now two of the policemen are approaching. "Eridan," you repeat as his eyes dart over the dashboard and up the road. They land on the two uniformed cops. This is when the adrenaline begins to trickle into your veins.</p><p>The same seems to be true for Eridan, who breathes out a "fuck", his voice shallow. When he curses again it's at full volume, enough to make it crack and you jump in your seat; "<em>Fuck!</em>"</p><p>It's when Eridan reaches across you, into the glove compartment with a trembling but decisive hand, that you wake up proper. Teary eyed, his hand closes on the gun. "Jesus <em>Christ</em> Eri-"</p><p>You grab your brother by the wrist as the two men come closer, looking him in the eyes for as long as you dare. The barrels of two other weapons stare you down through the wind shield. "It's not worth it," you tell him through gritted teeth. The tears are overflowing now, wetting his cheeks. He fumbles, adjusts his grip on the weapon, eyes darting between you and the cops. "Eridan. Listen to me-"</p><p>
  <em>"Exit the vehicle calmly, with your hands above your head."</em>
</p><p>"Eridan." He's sobbing now, tears in his eyelashes wetting his glasses, already covered in grime and dirt. Your hand squeeze his wrist hard, your heart ticking in your chest. "This isn't the end."</p><p> </p><p><em> When you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to lose </em> <em> <br/></em> <em> You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal. </em></p><p> </p><p>The cuffs are cold against your wrists, your body dragging against the warm hood of the car as you're held down. More cops approach. You don't listen to what the man holding you down is saying but the sound of his voice makes you cry. Eridan at the edge of your vision. Firm hands twisting your arm behind you and it hurts so bad but you can't even think about that right now because this is where it ends. This is how it ends. Eridan sobs. Your wet face turns the dust on the metal into dirt on your cheek. It isn't over, but you wish it was.</p><p>Dylan's voice cuts through the chaos. Your mind is running, but Dylan is steady and easy to pick out, so that's what you focus on. The terror of what's to come, the relief that you might soon get a hot shower, the hollow pain at the thought of explaining all this to your father, the blissful joy of realizing you'll get to <em>see</em> your father, Eridan's sobs to your right. It all vanishes. None of it is allowed to take up space in your brain as the two of you are taken into the police car and the long drive home begins.</p><p>Just Dylan.</p><p><em> How does it feel?<br/></em> <em> How does it feel?<br/></em> <em> To be on your own</em><br/><em> With no direction home</em><br/><em> Like a complete unknown</em><br/><em>Like a rolling stone</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"Like A Rolling Stone" written and performed by Bob Dylan.</p><p>Thank you for sticking around to the end: this has been the first time I've actually finished a multi-chapter project so I'm very happy to be on the other end of it. The feedback has been really generous and thoughtful, so thank you for that, I hope that this ending feels appropriate.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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